The driver’s door opened.

A figure stepped out into the rain, holding an umbrella.

Through the glare, I saw the outline of a tailored coat.

It was Grant.

He walked slowly toward me, his leather shoes splashing in the puddles.

“You should have taken the settlement, Vivian,” he said.

He stopped ten feet away, the black umbrella shielding him from the storm.

“There’s nothing left for you here,” he said.

I held the ruined paper tight in my fist.

“We have the digital metadata, Grant,” I said. “We know what you did.”

Grant smiled, a cold, empty expression.

“A judge won’t care about metadata from a defunct firm when the original document is gone,” he said.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone.

“And besides,” he added, looking down at the screen. “The board just moved the meeting.”

My stomach turned.

“What?” I asked.

“It’s not in forty-eight hours anymore,” Grant said.

He looked up, his eyes bright in the headlights.

“It starts in exactly eight hours. At eight tomorrow morning.”

He turned and walked back to his car.